


That Which Remains Unchanged

by MyckiMor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Language, M/M, Mental Corruption, Physical Corruption (NOT Rape), Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiMor/pseuds/MyckiMor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Untapped potential was a dangerous thing to have at one’s fingertips, especially when said potential wasn’t one’s own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which Remains Unchanged

**Author's Note:**

> I'm completely winging this one. Should prove freeing.

Greg Lestrade had always been a man of inhibition. Just ask anyone who claimed to know him. He was a man of structure, and steadfast morals, of complete heart and a cast-iron constitution. None of which was designed to last. Still, there it was, all the same, right where it always had been.

One might say, however, that his divorce had changed all of that, that his now-ex-wife had taken his still-beating heart straight from his chest, had stripped him of his very  _being._  That he was so torn apart at the loss of his marriage, of the betrayal of his wife, that he was left in a haze. That nothing else mattered. Just the job, the horrible, hopeless, mundane tasks that he was used to. That he could  _rely on._

That was what one average mind might say.

An intelligent person would have known better.

For better or worse, Jim Moriarty was one such intelligent person. He knew the truth of it all, understood that, without proper buffers, Greg Lestrade would ultimately end up burning on his own cross, divorce, be damned. The sins of those he fought, sought justice against, would internalize, until they were so tightly interwoven with his own, he couldn’t tell them apart. He’d drown in them. Suffocate. He’d  _die._

While that would be…  _fun_  to watch in any other individual, it just… didn’t  _sit right_  with Jim, the idea of letting such a disastrous, cataclysmic potential hang about, unchecked.

Okay, perhaps he was being a  _bit_  melodramatic of the entire ordeal, but, the fact remained. Self-destructive tendencies were hardly a plague upon the house of Holmes, alone. Or, Watson. Or… Well, the Detective Inspector certainly kept his share of questionable company, now, didn’t he? Then again, maybe, that was it? To keep so many like-minded individuals so very close by, all of them fighting demons of a similar nature, they never took too hard a look at one another. Naturally, this did not include Sherlock, himself, but… Natural selection had taken care of that.

No one kept the habit of cataloging the darker parts of all of these people, these small, insignificant little buffoons. Sherlock knew what they did, their habits, their motives, what made them  _tick._  He didn’t seem to have a handle on just  _how much_  of  _what_  it would take for them to tip over the same edge they all feared that  _he_  would go. If the Consulting Detective had bothered, he might have been able to see this all coming on.

Lucky him, Jim was already on top of that, for him.

Here. There was  _potential_  in this.

That was the thought that he had clung to, savoured, even as he fought back the disgusted snarl that threatened to cross his lips. The pub was horribly dingy, and twice as cliché as Jim cared to admit, but it was the poetic, perfect scenario for this little encounter to take place. Glancing around, there was little for Jim to be worried about. Not that he worried. The bartender, mid-fifties, slightly heavy-set, was clearly half-dead on his feet, the type of man who worked two jobs to keep a roof over his head, food on the table, and clothes on his children. It was highly unlikely that he would commit much – if any – of this average night to memory. Elsewhere, each patron was too busy, either with drowning his own sorrows, or chatting with friends, to take much notice on strangers. Most of the clientele were demin-clad, construction workers, day laborers. A couple of suit-and-tie types were intermixed in the modest crowd, but no one of terrific importance. No one who would be able to recognize him.

Again, not that he was worried.

Still, there he sat in his own two-piece suit, shined shoes and unapproachable attitude that he knew  _screamed_  ‘steer clear’ to just about anyone with a pulse who wanted to  _keep it that way._ Granted, he had the ability to change that at any time. Just… The interest. It wasn’t there. It didn’t suit. Besides, it left a certain assurance that he wouldn’t be bothered, interrupted, or otherwise blocked from completing his intended task. He was already there, in a disturbingly uncharacteristic little  _hole,_  checking his watch every few minutes which left him with the nasty feeling of  _wrong._  All of this, it was against his better  _everything,_  and yet…  _And, yet_ …

Nearly ten-thirty, and the waiting game was coming to an end. It helped, entirely too much, that his target had long-since found his perch at the opposite end of the bar, half-bent over the counter with a near-empty glass of scotch in his hand. (His fourth, which Jim may or may not have been responsible for). He was pissed off his arse, in the bottle and back out again, and Jim had to fight back an indelicate wrinkling of his nose at the sorry sight. Oh, the things he put himself through. Worth it or not, this was more trouble than was likely necessary.

But, oh, how necessary it really was.

Ordering one more drink for himself, more for show than enjoyment, Jim slipped the bartender a generous tip as the fresh glass was push toward him. He nodded to the admittedly enthusiastic thanks he received, sliding from his chair and proceeding toward his target. Lestrade looked to be all of five minutes from passing out cold, right where he sat, causing Jim to hold back a sigh. Perhaps, he had allowed the man to imbibe a bit too long. Then again…

The seat to Lestrade’s right was empty by design, Jim occupying it with a certain grace that he reserved for moments such as these. After all, he naturally stuck out like a sore thumb in this sort of a place, the least ugly of all of the ducklings, so, what was a bit more? Not that anyone was taking much notice. Too involved in their own universal unimportance. Sad, really. And, so,  _so boring._

A word had barely formed on his tongue, when Jim was stopped, cold.

“Ye’ve been buyin’ me drinks all night.” He chanced a glance at Lestrade, finding him smirking back at him, sloppily. “I should thank y’for that.”

Jim tilted his head, non-commitally. “If it suits you.” Unnecessary commentary, as they both knew that it would. Did. It wasn’t as if he’d turned the offers away.

“All th’same, mate…” Lestrade straightened a bit on his bar stool, blinking his eyes once or twice before extending his hand toward Jim. “M’Greg. Greg Lestrade. S’a pleasure.”

The offer hung in the air for second. He could play this one of two ways, Jim knew. The bait was dangling off the hook, delicious and tempting and  _oh so within his reach._  There was the option of allowing for a natural flow, of waiting for the tide to turn in his favour. Time consuming, tedious. The greater the investment, the greater the satisfaction. His second option involved far less investment, gave room to be quicker on the draw. The path of least resistance, and far-faster results. Jim was a patient man. He was also adaptable.

Flashing a confident smile, Jim grasped the offered hand. “James,” he provided. “And, the pleasure is mine.”

Oh, yes. He could wait. This was going to be interesting. Resistance, or no, Jim was going to win. He was determined. Eventually, everyone folded, in one form or another, and Greg Lestrade was to be no different.

Like it or not, an incorruptible man simply did not exist.


End file.
